6:00 AM. Still dark. The streets were practically empty. Most decent people never have to see this time of day, thought Beigey. He wouldn't have necessarily put himself in the decent column--he'd been a private eye too long, seen too much--but Beigey tried to avoid 6:00 AM when he could, too.
This morning, it couldn't be helped.
He'd just come off a shift tailing the husband of a client. Classic case. Old wife. Young husband. Tennis instructor. Also, gardener. Also college roommate. Also, weirdly, a circus clown.
Beigey had handed off the tail to his assistant, who'd take the day shift. Now his priority was some nourishment and a long, satisfying visit with his bed.
He stood outside the door of the Rise and Shine Bakery. It was one of his go-to spots. Good for a morning bun for breakfast or a killer Bahn-Mi for dinner. Mr. and Mrs Tran had all the nutrients a growing detective needed.
The store wasn't much to look at. A tiny shop that shared a building with a vape store and a pawn shop. But the shop was always filled and there was usually a line. This may have been because of the genius marketing move of placing a fan by the shop's open side door, which assured that the scent of whatever was being baked was blown out onto the street, where passersby would find drool running down their chins before the store registered to their eyes.
Beigey lifted his mask off of his nose for just a moment, breathing in that warm bread smell. Definitely a morning bun, but maybe he'd also grab a baguette for later. Possibly some creampuffs for dessert tonight? He mentally urged the customer in the shop to hurry the hell up. The social-distancing laws meant the tiny shop could hold even fewer people.
A giant pick-up roared to a stop. Giant "Trump" flag. "Fuck your feelings" sign.
Mr. Fuck-your-feelings hopped out, the guns in his holster clattering as he hit the pavement. From around the passenger side, a second asshole, this one with different guns and a super-timely "Hillary for Jail" shirt, sporting some impressive mustard stains. Two dicks, no masks.
The driver took a moment to note the line, smirked and walked toward the door. His copilot pulled out a phone and started filming.
Douchebag #1 pulled open the door and stepped inside; the Ethel Mertz to his Redneck Lucy hung back in the doorway.
Mr. Tran's voice, angry, above the fan: "Hey! I told you, you need a mask in here."
Beigey couldn't see him, but he could feel the veins bulging on the asshole's neck as he replied, "Fuck your rules! I ain't a fucking coward and I ain't a fucking sheep. I go where I want because this is A-mer-ica!"
Through the window, Beigey saw Mrs. Tran whip aside the curtain that separated the front of the shop from the back. She advanced on the asshole, not threatening him with the rolling pin in her hand, but absolutely letting him know it was there.
"You heard him. You want to buy something, get in the line and wear a mask."
The dick with the phone giggled. His pal placed his hand on the handle of one of his sidearms. "I got a whole bunch of bullets here that say I don't."
Beigey shook his head. All he'd wanted was some baked goods. His right hand found the brass knuckles in his pocket. He quietly stepped toward the videographer. He tapped him on the shoulder.
The guy turned his stupid, stupid face toward Beigey. "What do you want, asshole?" Beigey dropped him with a jab to the head. At the same time, the schmuck in the shop turned to see what was happening and Mrs. Tran swung her rolling pin into the guy's nads. He let out what Beigey had to say was a very satisfying "ooof" as he fell to the ground. Beigey grabbed him by the hair and pulled him out of the shop, where he lay in a heap on the sidewalk next to his friend.
Someone behind Beigey in the line had apparently just come from the grocery store and opened up a carton of eggs, which several people then hurled at the downed dumbasses.
There followed a brief moment of tension as the crowd stared them down. The men picked themselves up and limped back to their truck, tails between their legs, guns staying in holsters. As they pulled away from the curb, there was no celebration from the group who had sent them packing, just a sad, shared resignation that this was where the world was.
Beigey wiped the blood from his brass knuckles, stepped into the shop and bought his breakfast.
